Another Life
by TheSingingGirl
Summary: She's led so many lives in 26 years, and now Esme Anne Platt Evenson is about to begin another. But she doesn't know that, as she stands on the edge of a cliff and looks down.
1. Chapter 1

Until I arrived at my destination I hadn't really thought. At all. In previous lives I had been scolded for thinking too much, in my last I had encouraged thinking in girls and boys alike, but the power of thought had escaped me until now. My feet had carried me unbidden to where I most desperately needed to be and now halted, my sensible shoes clinging to the very edge of a cliff.

It was so beautiful. The bright summer grasses were tossed about in the lively breeze like the tresses of Mother Nature; where they abruptly ended formed a line of endless air so roughly perfect that a poet would have been proud. The sky was mottled blue and silver in a limitless panorama; the concealed sun lent the clouds a suggestion of gentleness and of other-worldliness. Below me, the rocks gave the grey a texture sharp and jagged, and the water lapped at their foot like a continual caress. To me, it spelt freedom, a freedom obtainable after just one tiny step.

They say when one is close to death, one's whole life returns to flash in the eyes and command remembrance. I was so grateful that my own memory was more selective, but how could my mind have the strength to present all of my twenty six years to me? Scarely could I recall the days and weeks before my tragedy. What I saw then, awaiting the breaking of a promise of life, were my own broken promises of previous lives.

"_Now remember, when you come back in the fall, you won't be coming to my classroom. Tell me, where will you be going?"_

"_Mr Whiting's classroom," the class of six to eight year olds chorused, some more prompt than others. Nicholas Tompkinson failed to answer entirely, occupied as he was staring out the window. I didn't bother to admonish him, given the proximity of the end of the school year, and the child's obvious excitement._

"_Mrs Evenson?"_

_The questioner was little Grace Stevens, a remarkably bright girl who nevertheless constantly doubted her own intelligence. With six boisterous older siblings, it was not hard to see why._

"_Yes, Grace?"_

"_What if we don't remember which one is Mr Whiting's classroom?" she asked, her blue eyes round with anxiety._

_I smiled. "There are only four classrooms, dear; it shouldn't be too hard."_

"_But what if?" she persisted._

"_Then ask someone else in the class. I'm sure most of them will remember," I added, a little pressure to ensure my expectations would be met._

"_Can't we ask you?" piped up Ellen from the front row. The most timid child in the class, I was constantly surprised when she spoke._

"_Well, Ellen, if I'm here then of course you can ask me. But I might not be here for the first few weeks of the semester, so you may have to ask one of your classmates, or another teacher."_

"_Because you'll be looking after your baby!" exclaimed redhead Benjamin Roberts, who, being an only child like myself, was ridiculously excited at the thought of his schoolteacher having a baby. Next to him, Peter Burton looked faintly disgusted, as the brother to a month-old baby sister._

_Outside, there came the much-anticipated sound of the school bell clanging raucously, and I hurried to speak before the stampede could begin: "Enjoy your summer! Class dismissed!"_

_Only barely did I precede Nicholas rushing out the door with a hasty, "Goodbye ma'am!" flung out behind him. At least he had the semblance of good manners._

_I knew I should be harsher on the children, and many a time my fellow teachers had advised me to give this child or that—usually Nicholas—a quick caning, but I couldn't. Not when I had been so punished myself for actions I didn't believe were wrong._

_Turning to the chalkboard, I took out an eraser and removed all trace of the punctuation of compound sentences. I was glad that no other teacher had left the odd word at the top of the board, as I was now less and less willing to stretch up that far, my heavy belly pulling me down. I was eight months with child and should not have been in school at all but, truth be told, I needed the money. It was my only source of income and I had the rent coming up. I was fortunate that my due date fell in the summer so my time off work would be minimal, though I loathed the thought of leaving my baby at home to go out and teach._

"_Mrs Evenson, ma'am?"_

_The sound of my name startled me, thought it no longer stung as it used to. It was my name now, not merely my husband's._

_I turned to see timid little Ellen still sitting at her desk in the otherwise empty classroom._

"_Yes, dear?" I asked, shocked that any child, even such as Ellen, would remain in school a moment longer than was strictly necessary in summer._

"_What if... what if you die when you have your baby?"_

_This was the reason the poor girl was so shy; her own mother had died giving birth to a stillborn baby just last winter. She had been left to be brought up by her father, and although he had been a most amiable man and the town's most frequented shopkeeper, he had turned to drink after his beloved wife's death. His poor daughter was left to fend primarily for herself. His shop on the corner of the street was falling into disrepair and business was ever-slowing thanks to his drunken manner, yet he seemed not to care. People in the town said he was a walking tragedy, but I was more inclined to apply that label to the girl sitting before me in a dress that was at least six inches too short._

_I bent down—a task rather more difficult than it had been a few months ago—to speak to her on her level. "Ellen, dear, I very much doubt that I will die. It's summer, so the midwife will be able to get to me quite easily."_

_She nodded fearfully._

"_Now don't think on it anymore. Have a lovely summer."_

_Recognising the dismissal, she stood and made her way slowly to the door._

_On an impulse, I called her back: "Ellen!"_

_She faced me silently._

"_I shall come and show you my new baby when he is old enough. Would you like that?"_

_At this, a clear promise, she brightened considerably and nodded vigorously. "Goodbye, ma'am," she said._

"_Goodbye, Ellen."_

"I'm sorry, Ellen."

I said these words out loud to let the breeze catch them and take them to a lost little girl in the dusty apartment above a corner shop to tell her that I had lied.

The first tear slid down my cheek, and I ignored it along with my responsibility to little motherless Ellen as well as the staff who would need a new teacher and the children whom I would have taught the following year.

These people were the only family I had in this life, the one that I had made for myself. Only days ago, I had been so proud of myself for making it, for climbing to the top of the proverbial apple tree, but everyone knows that pride must precede a fall, and I fell so hard, just as I always did.

It was time to stop climbing.

"I'm sorry, Dr Cullen."

_The year was 1911, the time was late on an October evening and Dr Litchfield was out of town. My father complained bitterly about having to cart me into Columbus, especially so late, but it couldn't be avoided, so here I was in the hospital, waiting to be seen for my quietly throbbing broken leg._

"_Miss Platt?"_

_I looked up from my penitent study of my dirty fingernails to see the most glorious creature ever sighted on this earth._

"_That's her," my father said gruffly, indicating me with a jerk of the head._

_I had quite forgotten to say anything in my rapture and I glanced down in shame and embarrassment. After only a second, though, I looked up again, unable to bear not seeing such beauty._

"_I'm Dr Cullen, Miss Platt, and I fear it would be ridiculous of me to say 'right this way'."_

_I blushed, but he was smiling, and I could not keep myself from doing the same._

"_I'll carry her," my father announced, standing._

_Dr Cullen looked away from me and I felt the loss of his gaze worse than my broken bone._

"_Ah, I'm sorry, you must be Mr Platt," he deduced. "It's alright; I can carry her to avoid jostling her leg."_

_Father looked down at him sceptically, for he was a lean man, unlike my father who ran our farm almost single-handedly, but Dr Cullen merely smiled and stepped toward me._

"_May I?" he asked courteously._

_What could I do but nod?_

_He picked me up with astounding gentleness and supported my weight in such a way that my leg barely hurt at all beyond the constant ache of the past hour or so. The reason, then, why I gasped was not pain but a dizzying sensation of shock at his cold skin and another feeling that I couldn't identify. I imagined it would be somewhat similar to being struck by lightning._

_Too soon, he put me down softly on a hospital bed and began examining my hideous injury, writing notes and generally sorting me out. He muttered something to a passing nurse, who smiled at being addressed by him and hurried off to fetch some drug or other, and then he sat on a chair by my bed, opposite my father._

"_Now, we're going to put you to sleep so I can set your leg," he explained to me. "Have you ever been under anaesthetic before?"_

_I shook my head dumbly._

"_Never been in hospital before," put in my father._

"_Well, it's nothing to worry about," he said kindly. "You'll be asleep before you can count to twenty."_

_I wished I could tell him that I wasn't afraid, that I was rarely afraid of anything, but I was terribly worried that I would say something my father would consider improper. As his sole heiress, he was always concerned over my reputation; he wanted me to marry someone who could keep the farm going, but also who would improve our social status. This was never discussed, of course, but I couldn't escape the knowledge; as such, I couldn't afford to appear foolish to a man of such standing as a doctor._

_Privately, I thought it was all rather silly. Whoever I did marry would be marrying me, not the farm. I wasn't inclined to marriage, either; I would rather take my own job somewhere, and I couldn't do both. And surely it didn't matter either way what a man such as Dr Cullen thought of me; he wasn't going to personally seek out any suitor for my hand and tell them that I was a flighty, foolish girl with ideas too grand for her own head._

_Still, I would rather he didn't that of me, so I kept my silence and didn't confess that it would have been impossible for me to be scared of an anaesthetic when he was the one administering it._

_I remember little of the time immediately following waking up, partly because of the pain medication he gave me. I do remember that waking up was the most bizarre sensation I had ever experienced. I was drowsy, yet much as I tried, I couldn't fall asleep again as the anaesthetic wore off and I grew steadily more awake and aware of Dr Cullen working over me._

_This was the other reason that I don't remember much of what happened after waking up; all I did was examine him. He was like a painting, a masterpiece, and I had the great fortune to be allowed to look on him. To begin with, I had been so struck by his beauty that I hadn't bothered to see why it was so, but as he worked I noted his pale, perfect complexion, his straight, strong jaw, his elegant fair hair and his eyes. Those eyes were the colour of rich honey and deeper than an ocean. I found myself trying to guess his age; he looked to be only in his mid-twenties but those eyes looked as if they had seen the turn of more than one century._

_Abruptly, I realised that Dr Cullen was fully aware that I was awake and looking amused by my blatant staring. I blushed, and glanced to my father to see if he had noticed my immodest scrutiny, but he was looking to a wall clock in ill-concealed impatience._

_Dr Cullen saw it too. "Mr Platt, if you need to return home, your daughter can stay in overnight."_

_It was now nearing ten o' clock, and Father stood immediately to leave before pausing. "I'll be needing to harvest tomorrow," he said, and made to sit down again._

_I was not sure whether I felt disappointed about this turn of events or glad. On the one hand, I desperately wanted to spend more time in the presence of Dr Cullen, but on the other I was not sure whether to do so with my off-putting father absent would be entirely wise._

"_I could take her home after my night shift ends," the doctor suggested. "If you don't mind," he added, but I couldn't be certain as to whom he addressed._

_Normally my father would never have assented, but thanks to my injury he had already lost my aid with the animals in the morning and he was reluctant to lose any more working time than was strictly necessary. "Alright," he agreed, and quickly he instructed Dr Cullen on how to get to our farm._

"_Esme," he said sternly before he left, and I bowed my head in anticipation. "I hope you appreciate what I fuss you've caused."_

"_Yes, Father," I murmured guiltily._

"_Hmph," he grunted disbelievingly. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow."_

_Then he was gone, and I was left alone with Dr Cullen._

"_I hope you don't mind my taking you home," he said. "I was going to ask you…"_

"_Not at all!" I said quickly, then realised I had interrupted. "Sorry."_

_He smiled. "Don't worry."_

_My leg had now been straightened out and Dr Cullen was in the process of binding it in place. I watched his long fingers as they moved over my skin, and almost wished it wasn't numb._

"_Tell me why you were climbing trees, then," he suggested, concentrating on his work._

_I blushed. "Father told you about that."_

"_It's standard procedure: I had to ask how you were injured. If it makes you feel better, he didn't volunteer the information," he told me._

_I could imagine that Father would not have been eager to reveal my folly._

"_I was being stupid," I said dismissively of myself._

_He glanced up. "It was only stupid if you didn't have a reason," he told me._

"_Even if it was a stupid reason?"_

"_Well, what was this stupid reason?"_

_He looked into my eyes and I looked into his, and somehow I found myself answering truthfully._

"_I was watching the sunset. The tree—it's an apple tree that I can see from my window, and it always blocks the sunset. Yesterday I sat against it, but there were other trees to block the sun, so I thought I'd climb it. Stupidly."_

"_Did you see the sunset?"_

_He sounded interested. Why he should be interested, I had no idea. Perhaps he spoke to all his patients like this, to distract them from their injuries. If that was so, he was a marvellous actor. He sounded as though my silly tale were captivating, as though he were seeing the world afresh after decades of stagnancy._

"_Yes. Well, I saw half, but then I forgot where I was and fell out of the tree."_

_He laughed softly, and although it didn't sound as though he were laughing at me, I still blushed._

_Presently, he finished strapping me up and placed my leg oh-so-gently back on the bed._

"_Thank you," I said politely._

"_No need to thank me for doing my job," he replied, leaving me feeling slightly rebuffed, though I tried not to show it. "But you're welcome," he added, and my world brightened again. "And now, you had best get some sleep, and I shall see you in the morning. Goodnight, Miss Platt."_

_I beamed, quite sure I would not sleep for hours yet. "Goodnight, Dr Cullen."_

The following day he had taken me home in a horse drawn buggy, and it had been then that I had become truly enchanted. From the way he lifted me to the very inflection of his speech, he was perfect. A perfect what; I wasn't quite sure, but I had no need to be. We talked incessantly for the long ride home, and though our conversations certainly began with pleasantries and trivialities, we quickly moved to discussing my deepest hopes and dreams.

"_I would love to be a teacher, somewhere out West in a little town."_

He had asked why, with genuine curiosity.

"_Because I'd like to make a difference. My parents don't approve of all my reading, they think it's useless, but I would love to teach some other little farm girl enough that she could be a teacher, or a nurse, or something else educated."_

Like Grace Stevens, who didn't even believe in herself enough to think that she would remember which in class she would be. Grace Stevens who no one ever listened to, who I had tried to encourage to speak up when she had an answer.

"_But I know I can't. I have to stay and make sure the farm carries on; I have no brothers or sisters you see."_

Like enthusiastic Benjamin Roberts, who was so excited about my pregnancy. Like poor, abandoned Ellen.

"_Ah, but Esme, God gave you your intelligence to use. People used to tell me that I couldn't be a doctor because I was too young, or because I was new to the area, but because I kept trying, I made the life that I wanted to live. It's like you climbing your apple tree. You wanted to achieve something, so you made it happen. You climbed to the top of your apple tree."_

I had wanted to laugh. Childish laughter which I would never hear again.

"_But I fell out."_

"_So you got up again. Admittedly you needed help to o that, but in six weeks time you'll be quite able to go and watch your sunset again. You go out West, Esme Platt, and teach school, because you can climb that tree."_

I did. When I had fallen the first time, when I had lost my first life as innocent Esme Platt and gained a new one as Charles Evenson's battered wife, I got up again and made the best of it. When yet another life began inside me, I ran and created the life that I had always wanted, that Dr Cullen had told me I could. I had reached the top of the tree only four days ago.

Today, after all my deliberation, all my determination that brought me to the edge of a cliff, I didn't jump. I fell.

My sudden pang of loss, the loss of everything I knew and loved and owned, threw me off balance and as I doubled over in pain, I lost my balance. My sensible school shoes lost their tenuous grip on the last life that I had known, and with a scream, I fell.

With the vivid imagination that my parents had sought to curb, I could imagine my body tumbling, flailing, breaking. I hadn't thrown myself clear of the rockface, so I hit rock after stone after ledge after boulder, breaking a new bone with every impact.

I fell.

* * *

_A/N: Welcome to Esme's story! A touch of clarification, first. No, she's not thinking about her son. She's trying oh-so-hard not to think about him. Of course I'm not going to leave it at that, but right now, Esme is. No, they didn't really discuss Carlisle back in 1911. He was trying to keep the conversation from him because he could see that she was interested enough to look him up in the future and furthermore he was genuinely interested in her. She wasn't monopolising the conversation selfishly._

_The next chapter will be from Carlisle's point of view as a young woman is being taken to the morgue._


	2. Chapter 2

**Carlisle's POV**

"Good morning, Margaret," I smiled as I walked past reception. It was a joke I shared with the early morning receptionist: she arrived just as I was leaving.

"Good morning, doctor," she grinned back, brushing a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and twirling it as she spoke.

I repressed a sigh as I moved past her. Such feminine flirtations were a daily hazard for me, either fr4om the staff or from the patients. It was rare for me to encounter a woman of any description without having to negate their attraction to me, whether that be honourable or otherwise. Especially if it was of the honourable nature.

I knew that in theory, I was one of the most eligible bachelors in the state. Thirty one, or so I claimed, rich, educated and handsome. I had heard it discussed many a time over the years that I was charming, polite and caring. In short, I was never lacking in candidates to become my wife.

Of course, these women were ignorant of a few choice details which might put them off, such as the fact that I did not, in actuality, live alone. If they knew of my housemate, who just so happened to be a mind reader, they might be less disposed to share my life.

My species might be a dissuasive factor, too.

I had never been inclined to find a mate. Of course the thought had crossed my mind, especially in the period just before I had found Edward, but I had dismissed the notion immediately. It would be unbelievably selfish of me to change a woman because I had taken a shine to her; I felt guilty enough changing Edward without expecting anything of him. Hoping, yes, but not expecting; I was overjoyed when he elected to stay with me.

Neither had I found my match in any already of my species. Though Aro had taken a keen interest in allying me to the Volturi by way of matchmaking, I could not tolerate a mate who opted to kill humans for food, and the only female immortals I knew of who chose my way of life were Tanya and her sisters, and none of them held any interest for me in that sense. Irina had pursued me half-heartedly for a while, but Tanya confessed that they all found my more religious and conservative ways slightly distancing.

"Dr Cullen."

The voice that called me from my resigned musings belonged to Robert Adams, a hospital porter who, unlike many others of the older staff, did not take offence at my relative youth. He hurried to my side before I could leave.

"Sorry, doctor, but we've just had a woman brought into the morgue," he told me grimly.

"And you need me to sign the death certificate?" I asked, turning back already.

He grimaced as we headed back through the hospital. "Yes, but she's not actually dead yet. Won't be long, though. She jumped off a cliff."

I frowned automatically at the thought of suicide. "She couldn't have fallen?"

"No. Path was yards back from where she fell. Anyway, her baby was brought in dead yesterday, hasn't even been buried yet. Does mean we've got her details already."

I sighed. "Who is she then? And who is her husband?"

Robert shook his head. "She's a war widow. Name of Esme Evenson."

"Maiden name?" I asked, mentally filling out the certificate.

"Platt. Middle name Anne."

I started. Esme Anne Platt? Climber of apple trees? Young Esme, who I had talked to for hours of her dreams for an independent life? The remarkable girl who had enchanted me because she spoke to me without any pretence or flirtation?

"You knew her?" Robert asked astutely.

It took me a moment to recall the relevant dates: she had been sixteen in 1911, I was pretending now to be 31 and so would then have been 21 and not yet qualified as a doctor... but then Esme was not about to tell anyone that I had lied.

"I treated her. She used to live near Columbus."

That was suitably vague so as not to arouse any suspicion, but the most part of my mind couldn't care less.

I saw patients die every day. I had treated patients who had fought death, patients who had been resigned to it, even on occasion patients who truly wished for it. I had long ago accepted the role of death in life, the inevitability of the end; there were times when I feared I could have grown impervious to it. Death and I were close companions, but rarely did I begrudge it its victims like this.

For why, I wasn't quite sure. I only knew that I remembered Esme Platt as a young girl, full of life and dreams and, for the moment at least, I couldn't reconcile the image of her carefree smile with the grim reality of death.

Robert was watching me, slightly concerned. "Should I get someone else to watch her?"

"No!"

The abrupt answer escaped my throat before I had a chance to think about it. Quickly, I smoothed my face and said, "It's not a problem. Everyone else has already started work."

Rationally, this was true. Irrationally, the idea had already struck me...

We reached the morgue and I did not have to pretend to shiver.

There was a woman, lying in the middle of the morgue on a trolley that had recently been clean. I knew her hair once was the colour of spun gold, but now it was darkened, plastered to her skull with blood and water. Her eyes were closed but her ripped lips were open, as though she screamed even now. Her body was utterly broken beneath her torn clothes; every limb was splayed at an odd angle.

"Fracture of the left tibia," I muttered under my breath.

Robert didn't hear. "I'll leave you to it. Have fun," he added dryly.

As the door closed behind him, I moved forward, drawn to this dying woman, Esme.

Her face hadn't changed much in ten years, beyond the damage and blood streaked skin. She was perhaps a little thinner, no longer the active milkfed farm girl, and her figure was that of a young mother rather than an untouched child, but she was unmistakably my patient of a decade ago.

I wished she were not.

True to Robert's word, she was still breathing, but each breath was harsher and slower than the one before; there was no other visible sign of life. She had minutes.

Several lifetimes of medical training flared in my mind, and I began cataloguing her injuries, leaving aside those that weren't life threatening.

"Severe head trauma, mainly to the right side, fractured ribs, three on the right, two on the left, probable lung puncture and internal bleeding. Loss of blood..."

Could I do it? Could I begin the process that would save her life at the cost of her humanity, for no other reason than I had taken a shine to her? For goodness' sake, she had tried to kill herself if Robert were to be believed! What was the likelihood that she would thank me for this?

Edward would not want me to do this. In his first days as a vampire he had detested it, raging against the thirst, the voices in his head, and against me. Now he was more reconciled to the reality, and like anyone he was grateful for a few extra years, but he still did not actively like this new existence.

Edward was not here.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

"Oh, Lord, give me guidance," I prayed, staring down at her bloody face.

Suicide. She had committed suicide, or tried to. She had lost everything: her husband and his child. She had been driven to try and join them in death, but she wouldn't, couldn't. She had committed the sin of murder: suicide. I would not be keeping her from heaven but from hell.

"Forgive me."

I bit her.

When I had changed Edward, it had been the first time I had ever tasted human blood, and it had nearly driven me to kill him. The temptation had been overwhelming, a thousand times worse than the scent alone, and more so because I had torn his flesh in an attempt to recreate my own wounds. This time, with the taste of Esme's blood already heavy in the air and knowing I need merely get my venom into her bloodstream, it was far easier. Still I had to fight, and I clung to the story of Jesus in the desert and the sound of Esme's bright chatter, perfectly preserved in my memory, to keep my sanity.

I bit her only once; she had so little blood that I did not want to risk taking more. There was no immediate response, but neither had there been with Edward. Perhaps for one who was awake and aware, the pain would have struck faster. I had maybe half an hour to make my escape with her before she began to scream.

First, to fake her death. That was easy enough; I simply filled in her death certificate which had been left for me. Her name, place of residence and date of birth had already been entered, presumably by Robert, and I hastily added the date and time of death. Next, I wheeled her body to the back of the morgue where I would leave the trolley out of sight, and opened a conveniently placed window. Finally, I filled in another certificate from a file near the door to certify that her body had been transferred to her home state of Ohio, thanking my flawless recollection for her parents' details. Hopefully, no one would notice the lack of actual transportation for at least a few days, by which time we would be gone, or at the very least unreachable.

Quickly, I brushed the blood from my face and neck and retraced my steps back to the reception. Margaret glanced up.

"Good morning again, Dr Cullen," she chirped, smiling inanely at the joke.

"Good morning, Margaret," I replied, silently wondering why it was that I had engaged in such trivialities.

As soon as I was out of sight, I ran back around the building fast enough that any accidental witnesses would dismiss the sight of me as a blink. Arriving at the outer wall of the morgue, I vaulted through the window, snatched up her body, leapt back out and bolted.

I clutched her close to me as I ran, staining my clothes with her blood. It was ridiculous that I took care of how I held her and yet I did, making sure her mercifully unbroken neck was supported, shielding her flailing limbs from whatever obstacle should present itself. As I neared the house, I started desperately trying to inform Edward of the situation through my thoughts. After three years he was much better at concentrating on the thoughts he wanted to hear. It helped, too, that there was no other sentient being in the vicinity, but I wished I had some way of knowing whether or not he had heard me. He was only three years old in vampiric terms and was unused to being around fresh, flowing, human blood. It was imperative that he should not...

It was at this point that the screaming began. Weak at first, her cries steadily grew in strength and pitch, graduating from quiet, deathly moans to pain-filled howls and screams. The sound filled me simultaneously with relief and with guilt: relief that the change was indeed taking hold and guilt for feeling relieved by her pain. I was not, perhaps, as sympathetic as a human would be over the pain itself; although I had never forgotten the agony of my own change, I was more grateful for the chance to live again. I had gained too much perspective on pain to value it over giving her life. Still, I hated seeing her in this state. How could I not?

I held her closer to me in a futile attempt to comfort her as we approached our destination.

"Carlisle! What have you done?"

Edward's tone was thick with accusation but he still held the door open for me. I ignored him for the moment and hurried to lay Esme on the largest flat surface we had available, which happened to be the neglected dining room table.

"Find me some things to splint her broken bones," I said aloud, aligning her limbs as I spoke. I was not sure whether the bones might heal wrongly if left unbound.

Within seconds, Edward returned with parts of the banister, proffering them dutifully as I ripped strips from the curtains to tie them in place.

"What have you done?" he asked again, raising his voice slightly over the sound of Esme's screams.

"Esme? You knew her?"

Of course the memory flitted to the forefront of my mind and I had no choice but to answer; I would not have kept it from him anyway. Instead I concentrated on reliving my first encounter in detail. The girl who would barely say a word in front of her father but spoke so charmingly, so refreshingly. The unconventional sixteen year old female who dreamt of being independent, but still giving. Most of all the cause of her accident: she had fallen from an apple tree which she had climbed in order to watch the sunset.

"Why does that matter?"

I was over two hundred and fifty years old. When the sun set every evening, I had no cause to stop and watch it; I knew it was going to happen again tomorrow. I missed every sunset because it would always come again. Esme Platt was sixteen; she could be relatively sure that she would live to see the sun set hundreds of times more, and yet she still climbed that tree. She actively sought out the best view of the sunset.

Had I not met Esme Platt, I might have left Edward to die.

He chose not to respond to this last, fleeting hypothesis, and I stepped back from the dining table, knowing I could do no more, to stand by him. Esme screamed still, her voice box at least fully healed, but she did not move save for convulsions of the torso.

"Are you alright?" I asked Edward.

He nodded. "I hunted last night."

We stood in deafening silence for a minute longer before he spoke again. "She's going to need clothes and things."

"Yes," I realised. "I hadn't thought..."

"No, you hadn't," he replied bitterly. I tried not to notice the tone of blame in his voice. "Where does she live?"

I pictured the death certificate and he moved away.

"Will you be alright?" I asked again. He knew I was not referring merely to his thirst this time.

He turned back. "Better a hundred minds than hers," he said. "She's _screaming_."

I hadn't noticed his discomfort which was suddenly clear in his harsh voice, and I suddenly felt guilty for that, too.

"Don't concern yourself over me," he told me. "Talk to her. She thinks she's being punished."

He left then, and I knew that he was of the opinion that this was indeed a punishment. I sighed as I watched him go, before returning to her side. For a moment, I merely watched her, then I fetched a damp cloth and began wiping the blood and the grime from her face. She didn't seem to feel it. Gradually, I began to speak.

"Mrs Evenson? Esme? It's me, Dr Cullen, from the hospital in Columbus. Do you remember when you broke your leg? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry about the pain, but it will stop. I promise you it will stop."

I paused to take an unnecessary breath of fiery air.

"Esme, this is what's happening to you. You had been taken to the morgue, you were dying..."

* * *

_A/N: Voilà. Chapitre deux. Et maintenant, je dois faire mes devoirs de français et ranger ma chambre. J'éspére que vous aimez cette chapitre, et j'essayerai écrire une nouvelle bientôt, mais j'ai beacoup d'autre choses que je dois faire, par exemple les devoirs et les répétitions de mon spectacle actuel. I think that the next chapter may be from Edward's and Esme's point of view, overlapping. That would be interesting to write. Or it may just be one or the other._


	3. Chapter 3

Sempre forte.

… _oh God forgive me for I know I have sinned, pain, fire, scream, kill me, help me, nothing worse, no, no, my baby, my, please Lord…_

Any thoughts that were coherent formed a strange jumble of pleas and penitence. My own head was on fire as I felt the flames of Carlisle's venom for the second time.

I did the only thing I could and escaped.

I ran through the woods, following the unmistakable path that Carlisle had taken from the hospital, bathed in both his scent and that of Esme's blood. It was the first time that I had been properly exposed to fresh, flowing, irresistible blood, but the pain in my head drowned the pain in my throat with ease.

Her mental agony shrieked after me for almost a mile:

… _hell, hell, no, I did not know, no…_

Her screaming died out, leaving me with blissful silence for a few short minutes. The thudding of my feet, imperceptible to a human ear, was the only noise and I took a little comfort in its regularity, a clear pulse, not the frantic dotted rhythm of a human heartbeat.

I pushed my legs still faster. Accelerando.

Three years after my final sleep, I still had not grown impervious to the speed with which I ran; it thrilled me as little else could. Neither had I grown insensitive to other aspects of my newfound nature, most obviously my mind-reading. Over three years, however, it had become tolerable and potentially useful, provided it was only Carlisle I could hear, where it had once been an unbearable irritation. I still would have preferred not to be subjected to every passing thought that Carlisle had. I still would have preferred to remain in silence rather than suddenly come into range of the town.

Subito fortissimo. I had to stop.

_Where on earth are my glasses how did she manage to rip that I really must go and buy some more milk perhaps she would prefer the red I wish that dog would be quiet nine thirty and I'm already out of coffee these goddamn gossiping women I really cannot work this new-fangled I want pancakes holy cow I'm so late..._

The mundane trivialities of the average person's life crashed down on me and I hissed in pain. Not often since Carlisle and I had fled Chicago had I been subjected to so many minds all at once. It was supremely difficult to shut them all out. It wasn't just the words, either.

_A half made bed an animal whining a rumbling stomach a rush of air a slamming door..._

It was images, sounds, intentions, fleeting sensations and dreams and notions; I saw what they saw, heard what they heard and thought what they thought. I was in range of perhaps twenty people at nine thirty on a completely ordinary weekday morning; I was thinking the thoughts of twenty one people in a mind built only for one.

In a way, I was fiercely proud that I stayed standing, that I merely twisted my fingers into my hair and pulled, that I had enough presence to close my eyes and stop breathing. With no external stimuli it was far easier to process the internal.

Half an hour I stood there, waiting, thinking, attempting to ignore the tumultuous storm that was my mind. I tried to actively shut out the invasive thoughts, but that only made me focus more on them. I tried to make my own thoughts stronger, to pull forward the most potent emotions I could find but at the moment they all concerned a certain suicidal woman, and I would rather not have thought of her. Her remembered pain combined with the pain I was feeling now... I couldn't deal with it. I simply could not...

I gave up. I stood there and let everything have me, rush and wash over me and pull me under. Though logically I knew I could never grow tired, I didn't have the energy required to stop it, or control it, so I didn't even try.

Diminuendo.

I was not ignoring, but not focusing. I was thinking of next to nothing. And the thoughts... they were still there, still bombarding me, but somehow passing me by. I thought that perhaps I could handle them now. They were fading slightly, as though they were now the support for a concerto for my thoughts, rather than a discordant, clashing symphony. Only once before had I achieved anything near as close, and I had had Carlisle with me then, holding my gaze, reassuring me out loud, encouraging me. I wished he were here now.

Or perhaps not. I didn't want to share my triumph with him; I wanted it to be my own. When living with Carlisle it was impossible not to feel just a little inferior. For all he treated me as a wonder, I could not help my temper, especially not in that first year. Nor could I control my bloodlust. On every hunt I went wild until I had gorged on gallons of blood, leaving me to feel disgusted and ashamed.

The worst aspect was obviously my so-called gift. I'd never managed even a semblance of control over that. Juxtaposed with Carlisle's infinite self-control, I felt like a child, and a stupid child at that. The sensation only made me feel more obstinate and exponentially childish.

I opened my eyes and pressed on. Larghissimo. I moved at almost a human pace as every step brought me into range of yet more minds. Carefully I let them be, without giving them anymore attention that I could possibly help, and found that they didn't hurt. Of course, as soon as I noted it, I was focusing on them and the pain struck once more.

Da capo. I started again.

* * *

_... had I known I would never have done it, had I known, I did not know, oh God forgive my foolishness, my naivety, I never knew it could hurt this much, more than grief, more than grief, surely it isn't possible, oh Lord, I am sorry, sorry, sorry, Charles stop it, please, please, please..._

* * *

Reaching Esme Platt's apartment was not difficult. I stayed in the shadows, moving at speed, out of sight and hearing and thought, and didn't once dare listen to a mind to help me find the place. Entering her rooms was even simpler; the window was open a crack and it was only on the first floor, round the back of the building where there were no curious humans to see. It was almost too easy.

The more interesting part came once inside.

Carlisle theorised that I had the power of mind-reading because I had already been gifted in the art of reading people. If truth be told, I couldn't remember my human life well enough to say if that were the case. Nevertheless, I did sweep her bedchamber with an analytical glance, and quickly realised that this was not a woman of earthly means. Perhaps widowhood had been hard on her financially, perhaps her husband had not been a rich man. The only furniture was a small table with a mirror, a bed, a closet and a baby's cot, now abandoned. A more thorough look confirmed that she had few clothes in the closet, and those which did hang there were practical and presentable, nothing more. With my unpractised eye, I couldn't identify her Sunday clothes, if indeed she made an effort on Sundays. Neither was there any jewellery in the room, save for one ring.

This ring did capture my attention, because it was clearly a wedding ring. I didn't know when Mr Evenson had passed away, but through common sense it had to have been recent—her newborn child had only just died, according to Carlisle's thoughts. At the most ten months or so. Social etiquette round these parts would demand that Mrs Evenson at least wear the ring on her right hand or on a necklace. Presumably she did during the day. Why would she leave it behind on the day where she was attempting to meet her husband in death?

My religious conviction was not that of Carlisle's passionate faith, but it was a fact, in my mind. My mother's family had been of Catholic Irish descent, which showed itself in my Gaelic colouring, but I had been raised Methodist. Becoming a vampire hadn't shaken my belief in God, more it had strengthened my belief in the Devil. Still, I doubted this woman had really been aiming for hell in her self-destructive leap. I couldn't really tell when her thoughts were already so incoherent with pain, but I had assumed she was dying in a misguided attempt to meet her husband and child again.

The abandoned wedding ring suggested otherwise.

Still, I picked it up along with her hairbrush and other feminine articles, gathering the entirety of her wardrobe. There was not enough for it to be a problem to carry the lot. Just in case a human happened to spot me, though, I took up a carpet bag she had stowed neatly in the bottom of the closet and placed the garments within.

I paused. Did I take her baby's shawl, folded neatly on the desolate cot? There was no memento of her husband besides her ring, but there was that of her child. In the end, I decided that yes, I would. I would give her the choice of what she was going to keep.

What would the landlord think of the sudden lack of belongings? Was the obvious conclusion theft or that Esme had taken the things herself and disposed of them as she disposed of her life? Either way, the night shift doctor would never be implicated, and few knew that I even existed. No problem was posed there.

Somewhere below me, there was a knock on the door and the sound of bones clicking as someone stood to answer it. Instinctively, I focused on the thoughts of the visitor.

Mistake. I had done a brilliant job so far of ignoring the myriad minds around me but now they all came crashing in. _Thank God there's who can that next of kin inconvenient moment I don't get he's gone and goodness this stain is this is going on for there's only a landlord Esme left her key again._

Miraculously, I managed not to drop the bag and so alert the occupants of the building to my presence, but the pain was horrendous. Even worse than before, now that I was in the middle of a town. I knew how to deal with it, I knew now how to counter it, that I had to relax and let it be, but I was also now aware that there was a constable at the door to inform the landlord that Esme Evenson was dead. Even this I could only discern in snatches of sentences and impressions, but I was relatively sure that I was right. In the event that they wanted to look around her room, I could not be found here. The stress made it impossible to stop focusing on the mental maelstrom.

Gritting my teeth and flexing the fingers of my free hand, I staggered over to the window. Time was potentially not on my side; although I had no real idea of how long the officer would wait before asking to view the supposedly dead woman's rooms, I knew that it would take far longer to control my gift again. Thus I didn't bother to try, just attempting to make my way out as quickly and as noiselessly as possible.

My escape was less than graceful, but escape I did, and within two minutes of first slipping, I was bolting for home, blindly following my own scent. The ground flew underneath my feet.

Prestissimo.

* * *

… _let this fly from me, oh Lord, Charles, let me go, Charles, it's not my fault! Leave Sean, oh, please, please, leave Sean alone._


End file.
